by Eric Meyer
An hour later we were sitting in the dark corner of a dark bar, and across the table Colonel Nathanial Bader who looked like he’d been given the date for the End of Days. He’d been the only person I trusted to call, a man who despite vowing to stay out of the politics of South Vietnam was fundamentally honest. He was accompanied by Captain Gene Pace, a tense Californian who looked anything but Californian. He was medium height, pale, with thinning, dark hair, and strangely contrasting pale blue eyes. He looked more like an accountant than a guy who’d spent his youth enjoying sun, sea, and surfboards, and nothing like an Army CID investigator.
He looked at me. “Your girlfriend’s in deep shit.”
“First, she’s not my girlfriend.”
“Whatever.”
“Second, those cops tried to kill her and me.”
I gave him chapter and verse about the bomb attack in the restaurant. At first, he insisted it was just coincidence, and he argued we just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Until I mentioned the cop who’d thrown the bomb. The same cop who’d been about to kill me when we exited the garden gate of Lam’s villa. He shut up then, and Bader took over.
“You’ve opened up a can of worms, Yeager.”
“How so, Sir? I was asked to travel north and investigate the crash site, which is what I did. I was in that bar minding my own business when they tried to kill me. I’ve done nothing, but what happened counts as enemy action.”
He nodded slowly, and I got the impression he’d been computing the information I’d given him, along with the facts of the air crash, and I sensed him coming down on my side.
“The first priority is to get you somewhere safe while we sort this out. We have a vehicle outside. We’ll get you back to Tan Son Nhut.”
“Van Lam has to come with us. They’re trying to kill her as well.”
He didn’t look happy, although he hadn’t looked happy since he walked into the bar and saw me sitting there. “That’s not going to go down well with the Saigon cops.”
“No, you’re quite right. They’re trying to kill her, and the last thing they want is for her to be protected inside an American base, surrounded by American soldiers toting American weapons. Any one of whom would be quite happy to blast a murdering scumbag trying to kill her.”
“I take your point.” He looked at Captain Pace. “What you think, Gene?”
To give him credit, he returned a decisive nod. “We don’t have any choice. We know there’s something going on here in Saigon, and if it’s true they’re trying to kill her for any reason, we should protect her.” He looked at Lam. “Miss Van, you’re welcome to stay at the base until this thing is resolved.”
She gave him a small note of thanks. “And my sister, Sub-Inspector Van Le?”
He shrugged and looked at Colonel Bader, whose expression looked like he’d just sucked on a lemon. “That’s an internal matter for the National Police. We’ll have to let things take their course.”
“They’ll kill her.”
“I’ll make a request to General Phan for further information about her whereabouts and any pending charges.” Bader sat back, as if he’d given a satisfactory answer.
“They’ll kill her,” she repeated.
He didn’t answer, and we walked out to their vehicle, one of the ubiquitous Ford M151s that were as numerous in South Vietnam as rubber tire sandals. Like many of these vehicles an M-14 rifle was clipped behind the windshield. The two officers climbed into the front, and we clambered over and occupied the rear seats. Pace took the wheel, and we drove away through the teeming Saigon streets. Everything went well until we passed one of the numerous police checkpoints. The cop on point duty gave our vehicle a casual glance, just one of hundreds that passed his post every day, and he looked again. This time a piercing look at the girl in the back seat, and he did a double take and stepped out onto the road, blowing his whistle and holding up his hand for us to stop.
Pace, the permanent Boy Scout, started to slow until I lean forward and tapped him on the shoulder. “Captain, if you stop this vehicle, they’ll drag her out, bundle her along to Police Headquarters, and toss in the same cell as her sister. You’ll be signing her death warrant.”
He reacted instantly and snarled, “Fuck ‘em,” as he fed the gas pedal. The jeep surged forward, the side of the fender colliding with the cop’s knee, and he fell to the tarmac, screaming at us to stop. Pace drove away, his foot flat on the floorboards, and weaving skillfully through the heavy traffic. He shouted over his shoulder as he drove, “I learned to drive on the Los Angeles freeways. Even the narrow ones have eight lanes of snarled up traffic. These drivers don’t know they’re born.”
We left the city behind, and I started to relax, until the base came into view, and they were waiting for us. They’d moved fast, and three cop cruisers had swerved across the entrance, making it impossible to drive through. Stalemate. The two sentries had emerged and walked across to the cars. They were arguing with the cops. Blocking the main entrance to the biggest military base in South East Asia was a big deal, and a heated argument was going on. Pace looked at the Colonel.
“What do I do?”
“We wait.”
They argued, and we watched it going on. Bader kept looking around, undecided about his next move, but it became outside of his control. I heard the sound of vehicles racing toward us at high speed, and a quick glance behind us was enough.
“More cops on the way in, Colonel. We need to do something, and we need to do it fast.”
He turned, saw them coming in, and his face went several shades paler. “We can’t…”
“We can. Captain Pace, you have to drive onto the base.”
“But those cops, they won’t let us pass.”
“They will. Pedal to the metal. Do it now!”
He looked at me, surprised at the way I’d given him an order, but he saw the oncoming cruisers then and understood. The jeep surged forward, and I leaned over the front and unclipped the M-14. There was just one way they’d allow us through, just one language they’d understand, the language of South Vietnam. The bullet. I aimed at the vehicle on the left and snapped off a half-dozen shots. Not aiming at the cops but aiming to scare them. I peppered the trunk, aimed higher, and squeezed off four more shots. The driver was still behind the wheel, and he didn’t need any further incentive. The engine started, and the vehicle shot away, leaving a gap that we could squeeze through.
The other Vietnamese cops stared at us as we drove past, and I couldn’t resist giving them a friendly wave. They brought up the rifles, and they’d be working out whether or not to risk firing on the jeep. It didn’t take them long to realize they’d be signing their own death warrants, and they lowered the rifles. We were inside. The Captain drove toward the administration block and braked to a halt.
Bader gave me a grim look. “You better come inside. We need to sort this out.”
We followed him to his office, and Pace brought up the rear. As if he was scared we might make a break for it, although we had nowhere to go. He seated himself behind his desk, shuffled through some papers as if to put himself on familiar ground, and finally looked up.
“We have a situation.” I didn’t reply to his statement of the obvious, “This can’t continue. We need to work out a solution. The way things are we’ll have open warfare between the United States Army and the Saigon police. You know what’ll happen? They’ll start arresting our men when they go into the city, and they’ll refuse to release them until we hand you two over to them.”
He had a point. That was exactly what they’d do. “Colonel, there’s only one way to deal with us. You have to get us out of Tan Son Nhut.”
“You’re right, but how? Captain, find out what aircraft we have leaving in the next hour.”
“Right away, Sir.”
He left the office, and he was back inside of a minute. “There’s a C-130 taking off inside of ten minutes, destination Quang Tri. It’s carrying Marines to strengt
hen the garrison south of the DMZ.”
“That’s fine.” He lifted the phone. “Mr. Yeager, get out to the stand and board that aircraft. I’ll clear it with the Marines. Get moving.”
“What happens when we reach Quang Tri?”
He sighed. “I’m hoping nothing happens. Keep your head down, and keep the girl out of sight. Captain Pace, you go with them and make sure they get on board.”
We walked outside, and the big C-130 had all four turboprops running, the propellers turning, creating a powerful prop wash as we walked toward it from behind. A crewman appeared on the ramp and waved.
“Hurry, we’re leaving now.”
We hurried, jogging up the ramp and into the crowded hold of the big aircraft. It was crowded with tough-looking Marines, all of with heavy packs and clutching M-14 rifles. It occurred to me then I was unarmed, apart from the Colt M1911 in the holster on my belt. Not much to go into a hot area, and I made a mental note to make sure I got hold of a rifle as soon as we landed. The men gave Lam an appraising look, and I didn’t need to be a mind reader to work out what they were thinking.
The ramp went up before we had a chance to take a seat, and when I looked around, there were no seats. Every place was occupied. We sat on the floor, the aircraft screamed along the runway, and took off. I glanced down at the sprawling air base we were leaving behind, and I felt a sense of relief. Tempered with anger. We were getting out of Saigon, and we’d be behind the perimeter wire of Quang Tri Combat Base, around fifty klicks south of the DMZ. A long way from Saigon, but not far from hostile North Vietnamese troops. At least the Communists planned to kill anyone they could find. The Saigon cops wanted us. Dead. I was thinking of Le, locked in a cell, facing almost certain death, and I felt guilty at leaving her behind. In that moment I made a vow to do everything I could to get her out. Somehow.
I had to shout to make myself heard. “Lam, we need evidence.”
She turned her head and moved closer so she could hear better. “Evidence?”
“That’s right. We know there’s something going on, some conspiracy that may mean overthrowing the government. I saw those North Vietnamese soldiers planting evidence and the wreckage of the aircraft. The logical conclusion is they wanted to hide the involvement of the person or persons who planted the bomb.”
She looked uncertain. “Yes, that makes sense, but surely they were successful. They did hide the evidence, killed the investigators on board, and the accident inquiry is closed. It’s over.”
“Not for your sister.”
Her expression darkened. “No, not for my sister.”
“And not for whatever it is they plan to do. If the North is involved it has to be a plan to overthrow the government. Which could mean assassinating the President.”
She frowned. “He’s not a good man. Perhaps the next President will be better.”
“Not if it’s Ho Chi Minh.”
“No, not if it’s him. What can we do?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have time to talk when we reach Quang Tri. One thing I promise, I won’t rest until I get Le out of there.”
She shook her head. “You should remember I was a constable, and I worked out of that place. What you’re suggesting is impossible.”
“Perhaps. But in my experience the impossible usually isn’t so hard. It just takes a bit longer.”
* * *
Captain Trung Kien stood before his company, tough, like seasoned oak after years of war, and his head was shaped like many ethnic North Vietnamese, broad and blunt. He was clean-shaven; his distinguishing features dark, fanatic eyes, and the broad scar that ran down his face from his forehead to his chin, intersecting his lips, which had twisted them into a grotesque shape. A souvenir of an American bomb that wiped out half his Company and almost killed him. It also did him something of a favor. His men went in fear of his terrible visage, which never relaxed, never smiled, and promised endless cruelty. He was proud of his unit. They were good men, well trained, tough, and specially selected for this assault. An important step toward the liberation of South Vietnam, and their names would go down in history as heroes of the Revolution. He watched their upturned faces, waiting for the word that would fling them into the battle they’d worked and trained for. The Imperialists thought the Tet Offensive was over, but they were wrong. Phase I had not gone entirely to plan, but Phase II would sweep them to victory.
“You know what is at stake. The future of the entire country, and today we begin the final battle. The air base of Da Nang is critical to enemy operations, and when we have taken it, we will begin the drive south. The battle we are about to fight will be the first step on our journey to Saigon.”
They responded as expected. These men longed for the fight, longed to put an end to this war that kept them from their families. “To Saigon! To Saigon!”
He held up a hand. “There is something more. General Giap has put a plan into effect that will end the war within months. When we have destroyed Da Nang, we will begin the march south, and the people will welcome us with open arms, with joy in their hearts. Men, it is almost over. Today is the first day of a new dawn for Vietnam.”
“To Saigon! To Saigon!”
He nodded. “Into the tunnels and come out fighting like you’ve never fought before in your lives.”
They’d been digging for months, unbeknown to the defenders. Shallow tunnels, little more than disguised trenches, and they would take them within fifty meters of the wire. When they emerged, their sappers would rush forward with satchel charges and toss them at the wire, to open the way for the troops to pour in. Trung stood outside the entrance to the tunnels and watched his men enter, giving them encouraging nods, smiles and pats on the back.
A pity they had to die. Despite his stirring words, he was well aware of the real reason for the attack. The Tet Offensive had been a military catastrophe, and they’d lost tens of thousands of men. After the debacle of Khe Sanh, they were men they could ill afford to lose, veteran troops. Yet they had no choice. Although the Americans held the advantage militarily, the Tet Offensive had come as a rude shock, and Hanoi had opined if they kept the pressure on, the Imperialists would buckle. There was more, a secret plan to overturn the Presidency, and although the details were confidential, surely they’d have a new man in mind who was prepared to do a deal with the North.
First, they needed to deliver a mighty blow on Da Nang Air Base. He nodded to the last man to enter the tunnel complex, Lieutenant Quan. “You know what to do?”
Quan gave him an apprehensive look. “I know. We all know. But can we succeed?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but disappeared into the entrance. Lieutenant Quan was no fool. He’d been a university postgraduate student studying politics in Paris before he returned to Vietnam. He understood the stakes and understood the political factors that drove the war of liberation. One of those factors was a total lack of concern for massive casualties. Like those during Khe Sanh and the first phase of the Tet Offensive, men’s lives counted for little. All that counted was the number of men who could carry on to fire a weapon. And when they died, there were always plenty more to take their place.
Captain Kien had little to do now but wait. He watched the perimeter wire half a kilometer away from his hidden position. His company would have a long crawl before they reached the exits and rushed out to assault the wire. Many would be exhausted, but he had faith in them. Good men who wouldn’t let him down. With nothing else to do, he began to consider looking for replacements. Since the heavy casualties, experienced men were in short supply, and he made a note to start recruiting and training new men immediately this battle was over. Men to rebuild his company, ready for the next attack, and when they were dead, he’d find more until they’d achieved victory, and the South was theirs.
* * *
MP Captain Mark Casey stood on the edge of the tarmac, holding his hands over his ears as a pair of Douglas A-4 Skyhawks screamed along the runway and soared into the air, cli
mbing steeply to avoid the threat of missiles. They left in their wake the stink of kerosene and burned rubber, although he barely noticed. He’d been in post for five months, and probably would have noticed more if the stink had been absent.
He glanced at his sergeant as he rushed up to him. “What is it, Sergeant?”
“Sir, a patrol just came in from the west, and they saw evidence of substantial North Vietnamese troop movements.”
“How close?”
Sergeant Jim Ferrell shrugged. “Maybe ten klicks, they weren’t exactly sure.”
“Not sure? Why not?”
“Sir, they didn’t say.”
He shook his head in irritation. If the Communists were getting close, he’d need to tighten up base security. Then again, they could have been moving south, which wasn’t that unusual. He decided not to take any action, not yet.
“I’ll report it to the Deputy Commander, Colonel Parsons. He needs to order his men to give more accurate reports. Otherwise, what’s the point of the patrol if all they come back with is guesswork?”
He kept his face empty of expression.
Doesn’t this officer understand he should be doubling the patrols on the perimeter wire, night and day? Jesus Christ, ten klicks, they could cover that ground in a couple of hours. They’re almost close enough to spit.
“I guess you’re right, Captain.”
He strolled away, and he was looking forward to hot chow. He’d been on duty since 06.00. All that time there’d been aircraft burning up and down the tarmac every few minutes, taking off with full loads of ordnance and returning empty. Helicopters, most of them Hueys coming and going, buzzing in and out delivering patrols to search for the enemy. Most often they didn’t find them, which made him curious. If that patrol had observed People’s Army of Vietnam troops, why wasn’t the brass taking it seriously? He mentally shrugged.
It’s not my problem. The officers are paid to take notice of it. My job is to follow orders. No matter how stupid.
